


Loras Remembers

by Lemon (lemon_sprinkles)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, M/M, Post - A Clash of Kings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 03:52:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_sprinkles/pseuds/Lemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loras remembers, and he doesn't dare forget. Spoilers for ACoK/Season 2</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loras Remembers

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in the below piece of fiction. George RR Martin does
> 
> Warning: Mentions of violence and sex

 He remembers the first time he woke up in Renly’s bed.

He remembers it was a calm day, the breeze from the rough sea blowing through the latticework of the blinds across the windows, rustling a curtain gently in the breeze. Green—the curtain was green, as it always was. It was Renly’s favourite colour, of course. Deep green like the trees in the forests; light green like the algae that clung to the rocks down by the sea; a mixture of the two when one stepped into the deepest recesses of the woods, the rays of the sun peeking through the canopy of the trees to highlight ferns and underbrush, while shadowing the underside of leaves and mossy rocks.

 He remembers the furs and blankets had slipped at one point, and his shoulder was bare to the wind. Cool and crisp, it slid across his warm skin, creating goosebumps along otherwise perfectly unmarred flesh. Welcoming the contrast, he just lay, cheek pressed against the pillow that smelt of perfumes and spices, his own hair and a scent that was distinctly Renly; soothing, comforting… familiar. Staring at the curtain as it fluttered, he watched dust motes dance in the air, settling on a small, intricately carved box beside the bed, before they were caught up once more when another puff of air crept past the latticework and asked for a dance.

 He remembers the chirp of a bird could be heard outside occasionally, the end of the beginning of its song always drowned out by the roll of the water. Occasionally he’d hear a servant walk past, the swish of their skirt or the clinking of bowls and trays in their hands carrying through the thick door. Anytime one passed, he’d stiffen slightly, hazel eyes going from the curtain to the door in an instance. But they never knocked or attempted to enter, and he once again relaxed, limbs feeling heavy and mind fuddled as the thick cloud of dreams continued to cling to him like a cloak.

 He remembers being unsure as where to place all of his limbs. He was completely separate from Renly, his back to his lover as the lord continued to sleep, no doubt sprawled out on his side. His face was in the pillows, a low whistle coming forth that he could hear clearly. He snored—not obnoxious in sound, but noticeable. Endearing, almost. For a man always so collected and immaculate as Renly, the notion that he snored was both surprising as well as slightly amusing. The thought made him smile a bit. But if he rolled over to see him—to soak in his form and to hear the snores better—would he accidentally smack him with his arm? Kick him with his leg? Perhaps roll on to him completely. He could feel Renly’s warmth so close, but was unable to note the real distance.

 He remembers staying still for as long as possible, before his limbs began to ache, begging for a reprieve from the now tensing of his muscles. Scooting forward until he was almost off of the bed, he then carefully rolled over, his shoulder covered one more from the wind as it pressed against the mattress. Brushing a mass of curls from his eyes, he gazed upon Renly. He was indeed sprawled out on his side; arms wrapped under a pillow, hair a tangled halo above his head, splitting off to look like trails of ink across his broad shoulders and back. His face was half pressed into the pillow, mouth parted slightly, thin eyelids closed. He could see the movement of his eyes from behind them, and knew that he would wake soon.

 He remembers wanting to reach out to touch him. His hair, his shoulder, the tips of his fingers as they peeked out from under the pillow. Anything—he wanted to touch him and explore like he had the night before. They’d done that sort of thing before, but one of them had always left afterward. It was too dangerous to stay the night; someone might see them or hear them, a servant might walk in or notice the departure of one of them from the room in the early morning. It was always too dangerous.

 He doesn’t remember why that night had changed everything. Why he stayed in bed with Renly, the two whispering to each other as they lay in each other’s arms. His head, cradled on his lord’s chest as he listened to the deep rumble of his voice and the steady beat of his heart. Fingers resting on his stomach, he felt the muscles move under his grip, gaze fixed on the wall where a mural involving deer and grouse pranced across the cream coloured walls. Why they fell asleep and why they didn’t care was still a mystery to him. Perhaps they knew that as Lord of Storm’s End, no one would say anything. It wasn’t their place; this was Renly’s. If he was with his squire (soon to be a knight) it was not their duty to be interested nor to comment. They loved Renly, the people who worked the Keep. He inspired their loyalty, and perhaps they believed no one would say anything out of respect. Out of compassion. Perhaps even understanding.

 What he does remember is how Renly woke up just as he had ventured to brush a bit of hair from his cheek, fingertips gently running along the slope of his jawline, small hairs brushing along the padded skin. Bleary blue eyes opened soon after, fluttering slightly, like a newborn butterfly, tentative and unsure before beauty and colours sprung forth as they finally spread their wings. Looking into Renly’s eyes, deep as the ocean, he couldn’t help but smile as sleep-addled confusion was replaced with recognition, followed by excitement. Keeping his hand on his jaw, he rubbed gently with the pad of his thumb, feeling the smooth skin mixed with the rough scrape of a jaw that needed to be shaved. Shifting, Renly rolled over on to his side, mouth opening in a large, wide yawn, hand going to cover his mouth belatedly as the gasp was almost done. Unable to stop himself, he yawned as well, letting out a soft hum as a strong arm wrapped around his waist and tugged him close.

 He remembers how easy it was to curl up against him—how they fit so snug and secure. Leg’s tangling, he dipped his head and pressed his nose against Renly’s collarbone. He smelt of perfumes and sex, and he couldn’t resist the urge to apply a soft kiss against the skin that stretched across bone. Strong fingers ran through his curls, catching only once on their decent to his shoulder. Renly mumbled something about how he could do this again—he could do this every day. How he could do with waking up to see his face smiling back at him. Feel the press of his form and the smooth, straight lines of his body under his hands. Renly ruined the moment by talking about food and how he was hungry, but that didn’t stop everything from being perfect. The sounds and the smells, the feeling of skin against skin and the brush of Renly’s breath atop his head, all of it was perfect.

 He remembers the kiss. Slow and careful, they took their time, waking each other up with the casual nature of it all. Their breath was terrible; tasting of stale, sour wine and leftover sweetness from the fruits they had tasted the night before. But that didn’t take away from the moment, the two of them far too caught up in each other to care. He wrinkled his nose slightly when they parted, but went back in for another embrace regardless, the taste leaving as the feeling of Renly, hard and solid and real against him in the early morning light, took over completely.

 He remembers how Renly carefully rolled them over. He remembers his strong hands spreading his thighs. He remembers the draping of Renly’s black hair like a curtain, cutting them off from the world. He remembers the feel of his sweat slicked skin under his hand and the tightness of muscles. He remembers the sound of the bed as it rocked under the lazy rhythm of the two. He remembers the sweet release followed by the feeling of kisses between laughter and smiles.

He remembers.

 And he remembers the first time he woke up without Renly. The first time he stared at the walls of his tent, body curled around a pillow, hands still bloodied and hair matted, the stretch of the skin across his cheeks from dried tears. His throat hurt with every swallow, raw and broken from the screams of agony and grief. He remembers how cold the bed felt, how empty and alone it was as he curled up on Renly’s side, face pressed against the pillow and how it smelt wrong—all of leather and straw, ale and coppery blood. He remembers how the realization that those mornings were gone felt, plucked from his grasp, and how all he had left was his memories, disjointed and clouded by grief and despair, but still there—always there.

 He remembers, and he doesn’t dare forget.


End file.
